The Vanishing Act
by BestSkeptic
Summary: Draco Malfoy's life has become one of endless tricks. His Death Eater initiation? Faked. His death? A ploy. When Hermione Granger discovers him performing magic shows, he'll try every trick in the book to avoid exhuming his past. Even love.
1. Act One

**Title**: The Vanishing Act

**Chapter Rating**: T. For language right now. Going to go M to be safe though.

**A/N:** I got inspiration for this one from a night watching the _Illusionist_, which, by the way, is an excellent film. I know I swore not to begin a WIP before finishing _Hermione Granger is a Whore_, but this just came to me and I had to write it down. I can't decide whether this will be a short or long series; I haven't mapped out the exact story-line. To tell you the truth, I'm not really looking forward to an epic, but we'll see. No betas for this chapter (trust me, for later ones–if there are later ones–there will be), so any mistakes should not be taken with a grain of salt, but rather, pointed out to me. I appreciate feedback, too, if you read it. With that, I bid you adieu.

**xxx**

He sat cloaked on the tiny stage, seemingly weary, his white-blond strands falling lackadaisically into his eyes. The theatre was buzzing with liveliness and a general excitement that could have filled an auditorium ten times its size. The crowd was huge, and, accordingly, each person was packed so tightly with the others that it was nearly impossible for one to not know his or her neighbour.

A young woman sat between two considerably large men, her eyes intent on the performer. "The one with such a peculiar name," they called him. They said he could do amazing tricks, perform remarkable illusions. They said sometimes that they often wondered whether his was an illusion at all. Children who knew no better likened it to "magic."

He grunted but few noticed; those who did failed to quiet the crowd. The roar persisted as he prepared for his act.

"Quiet, please," he offered demurely, and a slight shush became the audience, but those in the back still shouted raucously.

He held up what appeared to be a small rod, trembling in his pale hand like it was intimidated by its captor. It looked as though it pained him to blink his eyes, but he did so slowly. "Silencio!" he roared, and the crowed fell unwittingly silent. Some opened their mouths to speak, others to gasp, but predictably, each produced no sound at all.

He looked up thoughtfully. "Where I come from, speaking out of turn was considered rude." A slight, perverse smirk formed at the creases of his lips. "If you were not silent when told to be so, you were silenced."

The crowd looked on with eager eyes. "Finite incantatem." Gasps were heard finally as he lifted the spell, ending the illusion. People whispered incredulously, fervently debating what they'd just experienced.

"Most people think," he began, his voice gentle but stern, unforgiving–like his grey eyes–"that there must be an explanation for everything. What I just did does not apply to your laws of physics. Am I right?" He looked expectantly at the crowd.

"Hmm." He nodded his head, seemingly disappointed. "Legilimens. Legilimens. Legilimens. Legilimens. Aha! You, sir." He pointed to a scrawny man in the middle row wearing large spectacles and a cynical expression on his face. "George Wilson. You're a physicist, right? Yes, when you were younger you engineered weapons for the state, but have since retired. In 2001, that is. So tell me, do my so-called 'tricks' conform to the laws of physics?"

The man shook his head vigorously, looking frightened.

"He's a fake! He planted that man!" A slight murmur rose in the crowd.

"Is that so?" the magician inquired, eyes gleaming. "Lebilicorpus!"

The protestor's body rose feet from the ground, his jaw remaining on the floor. "Legilimens!" The performer bellowed. "Is that so, Edward James Rouse? Am I a fake? Would your three-year-old daughter think I'm a fake? Eliza?" His tone was nearly menacing, but soon he released his subject and his face brightened.

"Avis!" A flock of canaries shot from his wand and flew to the petrified audience member. One landed on his forearm and transformed into a toy. "Give her that from me. You can tell her it's magic."

The man clutched his hands behind his back and began to pace across the stage. Soon, he disappeared from one spot to appear in another, a few feet away. Then, he spun tersely and was nowhere to be found. The audience gasped.

"But what is magic, anyway?" He soon floated from the balcony to the stage once more, traveling on some sort of rod he quickly transformed into a microphone. He looked at it curiously and it disappeared in a burst of flames. "Sonorus!"

This wasn't nearly the most impressive trick the man had performed, but for some reason, the woman between the two stocky men gasped. Her eyes suddenly became as wild as her hair, and for a moment, she locked them with his. She knew he recognized their exchange because when she said the word "magic" next, his voice faltered slightly.

"Surely sane adults do not believe in _magic_." With the way his cold eyes twinkled, she could not discern whether he was relieved or frightened. Or a mixture of both. "Magic is in the imaginative plans of childish endeavors," he elaborated, shaking her gaze from his. He summoned what appeared to be a unicorn from midair. It leapt gracefully on stage.

Someone in the audience whispered a bit too loudly, "How'd he get that horse to let him but a cone on his head?"

"Magic is for children who want to fly with unicorns," he offered, and pointed his want to the creature's horn. It began to lift off the ground, hanging by its appendage, dispelling all beliefs of fabrication. It let out a disgruntled "neigh" to let everyone know it was displeased.

"Petrificus totalus!" The animal froze and collapsed on the ground with a "clunk."

"Mobilicorpus," he whispered, and the unicorn drifted away.

The audience gasped too late for its members to have been genuinely amazed by the floating animal. There was something else.

"What is it?" The performer asked, apparently amused. "Is there something wrong?"

"What is that _thing_?" a startled woman shouted in the front row, disgusted.

"What thing?" another man asked.

The girl with the blazing eyes and bushy hair saw its faint outline. It was second to no other animal in its grace and majesty, yet its qualities were innately disturbing. It was much unlike the creature before–it was horse-like, yes, but its body lacked skin, and all major organs, for that matter. However, gigantic skeletal wings stretched across its spine in death-defying austerity. She knew suddenly who he was.

"Those of you who can see this illustrious creature are very brave. Those who cannot are lucky." He threw his hood off and nodded to the creature.

"What in the bloody hell is he going on about?"

It leapt into the air and through the theatre's skylight, crushing class into tiny shards on its way to the heavens. The magician quickly transformed them into gems, and the crowd went wild.

"Thank you for coming!" He shouted. Then he bowed, turned, and left.

"Excuse me!" the woman shouted at him, her voice urgent. "Sir!" Her cry was muted by the pandemonium that ensued as busy Londoners made their way home from the rousing soiree. She was nearly trampled as she rushed backstage, and then was stopped immediately.

"Ma'am, you can't go in there," a husky security guard informed her firmly.

"I need to see the performer."

"Next show's Thursday evenin'. You can see 'im then."

"No, you don't understand. I'm an old friend of his. He'll tell you."

The blond man returned from his dressing room, now clad in a striking black suit. He eyed the woman, and then his guards. "What seems to be the matter?"

"Nothin', sir. But, erm, this woman wanted to see you. Said she knew you. I wasn't about to let 'er in, though, not without your consent."

He laid his eyes upon her and they hardened. "That was a good decision, Madison. I don't know her," he lied.

She looked to him with pleading eyes. "Malfoy?"

"Guards!"

"Malfoy, it's me, it's Hermione Granger! We thought you were dead! Surely you remember!"

The corners of his mouth curved in disgust and he glared at her. "She's mad," he informed his guards. "Get her out of here."

She knew better than to use magic as they handled her with their cautious "ma'ams" and "misses." Nevertheless, he'd underestimated her. There were other ways to see Draco Malfoy, a man she had thought to be dead for six years.

She'd come this far on ministry orders. There was a documented disruption in a few back alleys of London that seemed suspicious–more so than the usual. Something about magical creatures, too. Ministry alarms went off right and left, but none as persistently as this one. This was strong, frivolous magic, and its frequency was too high and too focused to be a series of accidents or defensive measures. It was undocumented, nonetheless, so they sent her to investigate. She had hoped it would be a simple case of a muggle-born discovering his or her talents, but now she knew the circumstances were far vaster. She had been naive even to consider it.

She waited for him on the back steps, the chilly autumn breeze kissing her cheeks venomously. She knew bringing Draco Malfoy back to ministry headquarters wouldn't be an easy task, but she had to do it. To think, after all these years! Given time to dwell upon all that had occurred, she finally recognized the severity of reality. Here was her childhood enemy, her arch-nemesis, dealing in petty magic tricks. That unsufferable, pure-blooded prat, dealing with muggles and other plebeians on a regular basis. And here was the man she was certain had died six years ago. Snape told the Order that Voldemort disposed of him on account of his failure to kill a dying man. Severus said he died with the rest of his family, at the brutal hands of evil under the misnomer of justice. He said the boy redeemed himself at the end, and they all adopted a somber attitude toward him for weeks. The shock finally set in. Draco Malfoy was still alive.

Draco Malfoy was still alive.

How could they not have known? How didn't they figure it out? Surely Dumbledore could have left a hint. His portrait could have disclosed certain information. And why did Snape lie? After all he went through to regain the Order's trust, to prove he was still working for them, why would he lie? How could he deceive them so easily? All these years... her mind was spinning at a hundred miles a second. This was absurd. She couldn't possibly have been so blind. Draco Malfoy died before the end of the war, she was sure of it. He was not just in that theatre performing magic for muggles.

When he walked briskly out the door, she knew this wasn't the case.

"Malfoy!" She called. She was in the process of immobilizing him when she, herself, froze. She was afraid he would keep walking, but he stopped dead in his tracks.

"I told you to leave," he grunted, eyes boring into her. "You're not wanted here."

"I have to report back to the ministry," she elucidated, standing carefully.

With sudden force, he backed her into a wall. "You do, Granger, and I'll make sure I'll be the last thing you ever report." He released her, letting her gasp for air. "Now get out of here; I never want to see you again." He didn't wait for her to leave before he turned and disapparated.

She stared at the now-empty place he stood in awe. "Hmm," she whispered, toying with a scrap poster that had blown from the theatre door. It took her a few minutes to recognize the words she was caressing with her fingernails–_The Great Draconus, Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays at seven, Sundays at three and–_the rest was indecipherable. She didn't have to work on the weekends but often did so anyway. A few hours of her Saturday evening would make little difference. Unless she found out where Draco was living, that is. Then it would make a huge difference.

**xxx**

"How are the boys?"

"Well," Harry began, taking a seat at the face table with his latte in hand, "Ron's just started reading, so Gin's really excited about that. And I'll be damned, we never should have agreed on naming the twins after my father and Sirius. They're turning out to be quite the little devils."

She flashed him a subdued smile that hid her envy.

"What?"

"You're happy."

"Yeah. Right." He looked to the side and scratched his tousled locks nervously.

"It's been a while."

"I know."

"You look good."

"Thanks," he mumbled. A painfully awkward silence between the two ensued.

"Well, I didn't ask you here to worsen things between us," she said brusquely. "I have news."

"Oh?"

"I was working late last night–"

"_That's_ a surprise," he snorted, playfully.

"Oh shut it, will you?" A grin stretched across her cheeks. "This is important. I was working on a case late last night and I stumbled across something positively disturbing."

"Oh, just spit it out," he groaned.

"Harry," she said softly, as to assuage his guilt. "Draco Malfoy... he's alive."

"What?!" he roared, jerking upright in defiance. "You're pulling my leg."

"Unfortunately, no," she sighed staring at him with distant eyes. "I'm not."

"What the bloody–have you told Moody about–_FUCK!_"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Exactly my reaction."

"This is unbelievable. He died six years ago. With his family. Snape said–"

"I know, it doesn't seem right. But I _saw_ him, Harry."

"I don't believe it. This is impossible."

"Well," she began carefully, "did you see him die?"

"I–of course not, but–"

"Who saw him die, Harry?"

He paused, clearly strained. "Severus said–"

"I know what Severus said. But I looked over a few of his accounts this morning. All suggest Malfoy's death, yes, but none directly confirm it. You know how clever Snape is."

There was a long pause then between the two friends.

"I–I'm stunned. Utterly baffled." He shook his head vigorously. "I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything. I just thought you should know."

His puzzled expression morphed into a nod. He reached for her hair and tucked a strand behind her ear thoughtfully, leaving his palm to linger at her cheek for a few moments. "Thank you."

"Mmhmm," she managed, her breathing shallow.

"Hey, um," he said, his hands now tucked securely and sheepishly in his pockets. "Could you–um, not tell Ginny about this?"

"Yeah, all right," Hermione agreed, and something within her died all over again.

**xxx**

"Fine, Malfoy," Hermione muttered under her breath, walking briskly toward his back alley theatre in the cold. "Two can play at this game."

She ran a hand over her thigh to make sure her wand was in place.

Check.

She felt like some sort of femme-fatale secret agent from those muggle movies she'd grown to love as a child. It was foolish, perhaps, but daring or audacious like those women, she was not; however, pretending would suffice.

She snorted at the thought. Agent Granger, defender of protocol and anal-retentiveness. Specialty? Confusing the enemy with her unkempt mane.

Well, that was a laugh.

She took a seat in the back of the theatre, which was just as crowded as it was the last time she'd been, if not more. This time, with good reason, she found a spot on the far end of an aisle. To her right sat a distraught red-haired woman trying desperately to control her three children. She would have had sympathy for the young mother if one of the little brats hadn't suddenly toppled over into her lap. The woman apologized curtly–as busy mothers often seemed to think they had the right to do–and did not await Hermione's knowing smile in return.

Hermione rolled her eyes toward no one in particular. She didn't exactly _do _kids. It wasn't part of the protocol.

Maybe it was something about Harry's boys that spawned the aversion. Like the fact that they were Ginny's, too.

And that's when the Great Draconus apparated onstage. The more she thought about it, the more ridiculous it seemed. Once she'd gotten over the initial shock (granted, it had taken a while), she realised the absurdity of it all. Draco Malfoy, resigning himself to putting on magic shows for the Triplets from Hell and their mother (she didn't notice a father lurking anywhere, and only assumed that he got lost somewhere between Inferno and Purgatorio. Men, they never did know when to stop and ask for directions.)

Now, she was never part of the "toujours pur" crowd by any means, but she probably wouldn't be caught dead showcasing her "eccentricities" (her mum's favourite pet name for magic at family gatherings) for muggles. Not only was it illegal; it was just embarrassing.

And this was Draco Malfoy. Agent Malfoy, defender of pride and slime. Specialty? Being a royal prick.

If that could even be a specialty. (She favoured her own bushy-haired talent.)

It was almost ironic what had become of her graduating class. It was no secret that the Slytherins–the pompous arses that they were–essentially "ruled" the school. A passing comment a la the Great Draco Malfoy (now seen, ladies and gentlemen, as the Great Draconus!) could make or break a lower year's reputation. Malfoy complemented your dress shoes? Well, you'll garner a few drooling followers for the next gallant affair. But should he even look at you with disdain, well. That was pretty obvious. Blaise Zabini, on the other hand, never showed up to class because, he told them, such primordial practices were below wizards of his high stature, and he could ascertain more information by cavorting with baboons. Which were, evidently, more sophisticated than the Gryffindors. But hey, when you've got so much money that you can wipe your arse with it–and then some–pretty much anything goes. Money, they later found, was not the only thing in close propinquity to Blaise Zabini's arse.

Not that she had any reservations about that sort of thing.

Now, it seemed, every Slytherin from their year _but _Zabini–and now Malfoy–was dead. Maybe all except that bat-shit-crazy bint, Parkinson. Hermione had always suspected she was a bit off, but never enough to warrant the psych ward of St. Mungo's. Evidently, she'd taken the news of Malfoy's death pretty hard. Which was ironic in and of itself, considering she was staring at him right now. You'd think he would have the common decency at least to drop a hint to his fiancee.

In comparison, the Gryffindors took many fewer losses. And were also now mounting the corporate ladder of the wizarding world. Seamus Finnegan now held some prestigious PR post, and these days you could find Dean Thomas kissing the arse of Mafalda Hopkirk–her own boss, comptroller of all that was not quite just in the world. (Funny thing was, if you had the cash or the prestige, even the Improper Use of Magic Office couldn't touch you. If there was one thing Hermione learned in her work for Hopkirk, it was that nothing made the ministry look worse than actually jailing the real criminals.) Everyone expected Harry to make his way up to Minister of Magic, but he would have none of it, and was now working in defence. Which didn't really exist. There were so many technicalities in the ministry that one word could never define your job. (She, of course, was the Head Research Auror of the Magical Law Enforcement Sect of the Improper Use of Magic Office.) In truth, he didn't really have a job, but he made the ministry look good, so they paid him generously for petty work. He was only partially aware of this.

But hey, if she could make enough money to join Zabini's club of shite-faced snake-worshippers if she so desired, just because her name was Harry Potter, she might turn a blind eye, too.

Instead, she was subjected to the torture of watching her childhood nemesis perform magic tricks.

In some senses it was better for her. After all, if it weren't for work, then what was there? It wasn't like her social life was particularly buoyant, and even if it were, Friday nights only comprised less than a seventh of the week. She wouldn't know what do with herself for the other six sevenths.

_What did housewives do, anyway? _she wondered as one devil child whacked another in the face, eliciting a death-defying shriek from the latter, and a rosy flush in their mother's cheeks. Luckily, most of the audience ignored Devil Child Number Two's outburst as Draco's act commenced. It tickled her to know that she was about to make him miserable, and not the other way around.

Finally.

He started out with his characteristic silencing spell. Of course he wasn't expecting war; and it wasn't a strategy, so he didn't alter his routine.

She, however, had a strategy. Silent spells were her forte; hours of practising back in sixth year (and to think, Harry and Ron had mocked her!) obviously paid off. She was so good at them, in fact, that she was on the cusp of non-aura wandless magic. She would probably ever be able to achieve aura-induced wandless magic; the last he'd heard of it had been at the hands of Voldemort, and while he had been a powerful wizard, there were obvious extenuating circumstances that gave him the sort of "magnetic field" of magic needed to accomplish something like that. The man was a complete nut job, if you asked her; no matter how greatly she desired to be able to perform magic to that calibre, she would never even consider _considering _to create a horcrux. It was vile, it was unnatural, it was utterly emotionally draining–not to mention illegal–and all were understatements. She'd sooner die than even think of thinking of thinking of... point taken. It didn't mean she couldn't manipulate arithmancy and silent spells to perform wandless magic without the "totally insane" part. Hermione Granger was many things, but incapable was not one of them.

To her advantage, a simple silent charm sufficed, and his spell ended. It wasn't enough so that the audience noticed–Malfoy might've kept them quiet for a few moments longer–but she'd be damned if the Great Draconus didn't look flustered as hell. She wondered if he was confused. Scared, even. With thoughts of, "Shite, did I do that? I don't remember doing that" running through his mind. Utterly panicked. For a brief moment, colour rose in his cheeks and outlined his jaw.

Time, the merciless bastard he was (a He because only a man could do such horrendous things to a woman's appearance), had evidently been kind to Draco Malfoy. Not many people could say that they lived through a war and in exile and instead of losing sexual prowess, became sexier. His jaw had lowered somewhat, so that his chin didn't look so excruciatingly pointy, his features had hardened, and his shoulders broadened. Staring at him, even as the arse that he was, she couldn't help but feel a certain embarrassment for her own appearance. If she used to be Hermione Plain-Jane Granger, she had probably now earned the title Hermione Could-Stand-To-Lose-A-Few-Pounds-Around-The-Middle-Jane Granger. And she wasn't particularly preoccupied with her vanity, either, so it wasn't like she tried to make herself up or even wear flattering clothes. She was getting too old for such frivolities, and anyway, there was never any time.

_Some _people had to work legitimate jobs to get by. _Some _people weren't fortunate enough to be presumed dead and otherwise a freak of muggle nature.

Malfoy and his perfect platinum locks could go fuck themselves.

Devil Child Number Three started sobbing. It obviously didn't enjoy being silenced, which was now what Malfoy was going on about. Oh, poor Draco Malfoy, living his childhood in extravagance and luxury. Poor Draco Malfoy, being silenced after speaking out of turn. For the millisecond before his mum handed him a new toy broomstick, made entirely of gold and encrusted in diamonds. As a toddler.

And now he was occupying audience members' minds. Hermione shook her head; this was so illegal he could hang for it. And now, John Doe was just _so _sceptical of Draco's ploy, that he would have to try it himself. Hermione wondered if he actually did plant that man.

Now was her chance, so she'd have to work quickly. She murmured a few incantations to herself and did some tricky wand-work under her skirt. And surely enough, his "Lebilicorpus" rendered no flying middle-aged man. She smiled smugly from behind a curtain of audience members.

"Lebilicorpus!" he roared a second time.

"Lebilicorpus!" She noticed his right eye twitch as he tried again.

"Lebilicorpus!"

_The show must go on._

"Avis!" A flock of birds sprouted from his wand, and, what do you know, he transfigured one into a stuffed toy for his subject's child.

And now he was getting into his "what is magic" shpiel. Which, although intriguing, was beginning to get on her nerves. Thus, her proactive measures were justified. She muttered a few incantations under her breath and he stopped speaking. He opened his mouth to continue his diatribe, but to no avail. She knew how to silence him, all right. And more permanently than he had silenced her.

Suddenly her temples throbbed. He was sending out a universal legilimens like a shockwave. It was only a matter of time before it reached her mind.

"_Occlumens,"_ she whispered, and tried her hardest to perform the extremely complex magic. In truth, she was shit for occlumency, but she figured she'd give it a shot. His legilimens was far too broad, anyway. If she blocked her thoughts from it, there was a minimal chance he'd even notice she was in the theatre.

She decided to send one back. "Legilimens." _Malfoy, you should have agreed to chat with me. You know, for old time's sake._

_I knew it! Fuck you, Granger, fuck you to hell. I'm trying to put on a show here._

The audience's murmur rose. Soon, it would become plain chaos.

_So come back to the ministry with me. I bet you'd put on a _fantastic _show there._

_You think you're so bloody funny. The answer's no, Granger. Fuck off._

_Then I guess you're not interested in commanding the attention of your adoring fans._

_Okay, you got me. You've achieved whatever sick fantasy you've been thinking of in that pretty little head of yours. You've done it; I'm mortified. Well, this isn't funny anymore. Unhand me._

_No._

_Do it now!_

_Nah-ah-ah. Not so fast._

_I'm not going back to jump through hoops for you at the ministry. I'm dead, it shouldn't matter._

_But I'm staring at a living, breathing Draco Malfoy right now. And I must say, he's getting rather flustered._

_Granger, I'm warning you..._

_Listen, just meet me outside the theatre. It's all I ask. Hell, we can get coffee for all I care._

_Are you asking me on a date?_

_You're wasting your time, Malfoy._

_You know what, fine. Fine, god damnit, fine. You can have your fifteen minutes. Just let me do my bloody show._

_As you wish._

And with that, he was speaking again, explaining that his silence was necessary for what he was to do next. Which was, of course, the levitation of a unicorn and the presentation of a thestral.

Which was so, so, so illegal.

**TBC**

**If you read, please review.**


	2. Pity for a Death Eater's Son

**A/N:** At first, I thought I'd leave this story alone; after all, the chapter I had half-written was utter shite, but after a few reviews, and the impending seventh installment of our favourite series, I decided to try again. A few new ideas and sheets of notebook paper and I was rarin' to go. No betas this time, either; I'm under an ever-apparent time-crunch. If you spot any errors, feel free to let me know. I'm going to try to get these chapters (more like "parts") up as soon as possible–hopefully before I leave for Spain on the 19th. Wish me luck, and, of course, enjoy!

**.x.**

"Malfoy!" she called into the dusk.

He responded with a swish of black robes like a dementor's stride.

"Malfoy!" She stomped toward him, quaking the group with her hooves, but to no avail–he had sped up and cheated the corner, his cloak licking his heels, billowing behind him like thunder.

She switched to a brisk trot, tackled her mane with a pointed hood, and followed him into the alleyway.

"Lumos," she whispered, when she thought she'd lost him, but then she spotted a dark figure gliding up a steel staircase. She tripped over a rock scrambling after him, and apparated up a few flights of stairs, but she was too late to see where he had gone.

She found Malfoy locking a door (with a muggle key, at least), a manilla envelope seemingly bludgeoned to his hands.

He passed it to her, careful not to let their fingers touch, and lowered his hood to reveal a scowl that nearly sliced his nose right off.

Hermione dismissed his gesture with a shake of her head, and ripped the envelope open.

_To whom it may concern:_

_There are two conditions under which you must be reading this letter: first, you have discovered the whereabouts of Mr Draco Malfoy; second, the author is, regretfully, deceased. I implore you to forgo any elegies and consider the matter at hand: in the event of Mr Malfoy's discovery, the late Albus Dumbledore has requested that his location never be disclosed to the wizarding public for his own protection, until Draco, as a consenting adult, deems it necessary or favourable. _

_To substantiate this demand, I have instated Mr Malfoy as the sole proprietor of my estate–the contents of which, if released to ministry affiliates, would likely incriminate members of the Order of the Phoenix, and require, in the very least, an investigation of its prominent operators–a fate which the reader might hope to avoid._

_Furthermore, I have asked Mr Malfoy to sate any reader's curiosity as to the occurrences of June 1997, in the event that the reader complies with the former headmaster's wishes._

_Signed,_

_S.P. Snape _

She was careful not to let her expression betray her thoughts as she finished reading, but Snape's last few lines had torn her to pieces. Stabbed her right through the heart.

He may as well have crucio'd her to incapacity. She couldn't even organise her thoughts. First of all, she supposed the question of how Snape's estate mysteriously disappeared off the map upon his death was resolved. At least there was some good in that.

But the rest perplexed her. How could Snape have hidden this information from the Order all along? And for what reason–what reason on _earth–_could Dumbledore have wanted to protect _Draco Malfoy_? Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy, also known as Voldemort's number one henchman (or at least number two). Draco Malfoy, death-eater-in-training, son of darkness and mischief and terrible crimes against humanity committed in cold blood. Draco Malfoy, prejudiced pureblood prat. Draco Malfoy, Albus Dumbledore's _would-be murderer._

Of all her desires, for this–for one conversation with her former headmaster–she would have given _anything._ Despite his occasional looniness, she knew that Dumbledore was right almost a hundred percent of the time. She could never go against his wishes.

But how was she supposed to follow the rules, and not dishonour the headmaster at the same time?

She had to think about this. She had to consult someone about this. And it had to be someone she could trust. And it had to be immediately.

"Listen to me, Malfoy," she spat through clenched teeth. "I haven't got plans to take you to my supervisor... _yet_."

Was that a... smile? Trying to force its way through the outer crust of his lips like hot magma?

"But mark my words," she barked, "I'll be back. And if I return to find the Great Draconus has mysteriously disappeared, I'll sic the entire department on your arse like a pack of wild dogs. I'll paint you ten times the heinous villain you actually are. None of London will rest until it has your head on a platter."

"I am not a villain," he whispered, his lips snaking and slithering into the syllables of his sentence.

She narrowed her eyes, searching for the telling twitch, digging for the lie. When she found none, she sneered. "Right. And Minerva McGonagall is the Queen of Scotland."

"So long as that's settled," he snarled, "I shan't be recounting the events of June '97 anytime soon."

"Oh, you'll be recounting them, all right," she muttered, pulling out her wand. "In front of a jury of your peers." With that, she flicked her wrist and shot a sparkling, silver stream of light at him that glittered against his paper-white wrists. "And don't even _think _about trying to remove those."

She furrowed her brow, triumphing over him. Curiously, he didn't appear to be triumphed over. His arms shot down to his sides, his cloak draping their nakedness, and he stood resolute as ever, spine arched, looking like a wizard king.

Her confusion was only half-appeased by a lovely scowl, and with that, she disapparated.

**.x.**

"Whore," Lupin said mildly, the word rolling off his tongue with no more gravitas than a noncommital inquiry about the weather. He didn't look up, but he did take a sip of his tea.

Anybody else would have received a mouthful of her fist for that comment, but in Remus Lupin's direction, she sent only a sigh. "W. Sort of. Well, I suppose it's W."

"All right." He peered over his spectacles with a look in his eyes wavering between disgust and amusement. "What is it you kids say today? 'Right-O'?" A smile lit his cheeks, illuminating a visage that might have been beautiful in another time; now tired age-tracks and deep scars lined his forehead, sliced his nose, traversed his cheekbones and chin. But his grin had no mark of weariness. Sometimes she couldn't imagine that just a decade ago the man in a wheelchair before her, sporting a grey mane and a matching expression of exhaustion, was dodging curses like bullets and maturity like the plague. How quickly a man in the prime of his life had deteriorated.

They'd begun this weekly ritual just after they were both effectively estranged from their rebel clique. After the war, there was no need for rebels, and so, wizards and witches could associate with whomever they wished as delegated by politics. Politics dealt both Remus and Hermione a nasty hand, it appeared, so they sought solace from each other. And although she knew he pitied her, she often wondered which of them needed company the most.

When they invented the mnemonic, it was her. W.H.O.R.E. Work, Harry, "Oh," Ron, Everything Else. Of course, the "Oh" referred to anything that might elicit that exclamation in bed. They felt like children, but it got them by with a few laughs.

"I haven't got all day, you know."

"Don't lie to me," she teased, a mischievous smile now stamping her own face.

His eyebrows skyrocketed into his forehead. "Really! I've got a rendez-vous with, um, a certain–"

"Bottle of Firewhisky?"

"Can't get anything past you."

"Not a chance." She again flashed a smile in his direction and took a sip of tea. He took the silence to fidget a little in his chair and stretch his arms over his head like a tired dog.

He lowered his voice, signaling a change of tone in their conversation. "But really, Hermione, what's troubling you at the ministry?"

"Oh gods, oh no, oh no no no no no," she grieved. "You must promise not to tell anybody. Oh, I can't believe I've let myself do this... So unprofessional..." Her forehead crashed into her hands.

"Sleeping with your boss, are you?" He leant backwards, looking quite amused, like he was a five-year-old with a secret he had no intent on sharing.

"No!" she shrieked. Her eyes snapped open in disgust, first at the thought of sex with Mafalda Hopkirk, then at her own reaction. "No," she repeated in a quieter tone. "Nothing like that. But first swear not to tell anybody!"

"Not a soul."

"Okay." She sighed the sigh of a woman much older than she, and took a deep breath before speaking again. "Okay."

"Yes..."

"Okay."

"Yes, I've got that part, I think."

"Okay. Okay."

"Hermione!"

"Okay! I mean–I'm sorry. It's just that... DracoMalfoyisstillaliveandI'venotyetturnedhimintotheministry," she spat, then exhaled like a runner who had just finished her race.

He nodded his head, his chin diving to his breastplate, and licked his lips as though he were deciding whether or not to tell her something. "Mmm." He blinked his eyelids for what seemed like an eternity. "Yes, I suspected something like this might happen."

"_You knew he was alive?!_"

"Oh, good heavens, no. No, most certainly not. That is indeed a surprise; however, in the wizarding world, and in my experience especially, it is not so uncommon for someone to... how do I put this... come back from the dead, so to speak." His last words dripped from his tongue with a flavour of bitterness; she could see the ghost of Sirius in his eyes. In an instant it was gone, and Remus looked up with a focused, questioning glare. "And you haven't reported this to the ministry?"

A deep frown incised her cheeks and her eyebrows settled into a helpless arrowhead. "No," she whined. "Well, I did tell Harry, but now I need to un-tell him, though I doubt he'll believe me, and I just don't know what to do with–"

"Shush! Calm down," Lupin urged. "Let's start from the beginning."

She gave him a hard stare and flung the roll of parchment Malfoy had given her on the tea table.

"Mmm," he groaned, straining to reach toward it. His fingers buckled under the weight of the parchment, but once it was in his grasp, he unrolled it with finesse. A little fiddling with his spectacles would do the trick–he shoved them in place on the bridge of his nose, prevailing over the wiry spokes, and began to read.

Hermione held her breath. She couldn't tell from his grunts and sighs whether he interpreted it as the coming of the apocalypse or another blip in the system.

"Well." He clapped his hands and obliged her with a half-enthused smile. "It looks like you've got three options here."

"Three?"

"Take him to Hopkirk against his will, leave him to his own devices and pretend you saw a ghost, or–"

"If anyone ever found out, I'd be crucified!"

"_Or_," he shook his head, as if to shoo her voice away, "you could convince him to turn himself to the Department of his own accord."

A silence hung in the air before she spoke.

"And how... am I supposed to accomplish that?" she asked slowly, forming each syllable carefully between her lips before expelling it.

The older man shrugged. "You would know better than I. You went to school with the prat."

"Exactly! And he despised me then probably as much as I hated him! Maybe more!"

"Hermione, you must do what you feel is right. I cannot make this decision for you. You are the professional. Act accordingly."

She stuck out her lower lip just about as far as it would go. She did not need to be reprimanded by a _marauder_. "Forget I even brought it up."

He sipped his tea, ignoring her bitterness. "Oh, Severus," he laughed. "Never could make anything easy, could he? Bloody bastard."

**.x.**

At the end of the war, after everyone had picked up enough of the pieces to quit drinking and venture out into the rubble of the aftermath, hordes of death eaters presumed to be dead ended up on the ministry's doorstep. Some came of their own accord, singing their _deepest, _most _sincere_ apologies and the praises of a certain Mr Harry Potter; others came kicking and screaming. The ones who knew what was good for them stayed away; after all, the triumphant heroes were not in the mood to afford forgiveness to those who piloted their trips to Hell. Still, the less intelligent ones always managed to get caught, doing ridiculous things, like, say, _performing magic shows in front of muggles._

Five years though, that was an anomaly at best. The last one stupid enough to get caught but not influential enough to wriggle his way out of it was Vincent Crabbe, and he reared his ugly head just eight months after the fact. And, at the time, even eight months was one hell of an offence. Five years then would've sounded like a lifetime.

She was going to get to the bottom of this. How could Draco Malfoy have passed under the radar for so long?

She whipped out a giant manilla folder labeled "_S. P. Snape Investigation_" and skipped it on her desk. It landed with an emphatic thud and she smiled. She would conquer the beast.

Hermione opened the folder and thumbed through pages and pages of records. Snape's trials alone could have comprised a book. And one hell of a book it would have been. All his faults aside–the chief of which being his inability to forgive himself–he had a way with words; she'd give him that. His eloquence rang through the tattered pages.

_Free your mind from the shackles of these books, Miss Granger. Magic is not a thing to be tamed but a method to be mastered. Train your mind to memorise, and it will. Train it to recognise, and you have defeated the Dark Lord. I am only telling you this because–_

She slammed the folder shut when she realised the too-real, molasses voice was actually speaking to her. On some days she could handle his ghost. Today was not one of them.

She took a deep breath and dove in once again, this time flipping to the section labeled _On the Fate of D. A. Malfoy_. It read like a surreal interview.

_**22 September, 1997**_

_**7:03 in the evening**_

_R. J. Lupin: Describe the events proceeding the death of Albus Dumbledore._

_S. P. Snape: After evading the haphazardly-cast curses shouted by a certain Mr Harry Potter, I apparated to a secluded underground cellar in the Forbidden Forest, in which I had assumed Draco Malfoy lay hidden._

_R. J. Lupin: But he was not there._

_S. P. Snape: He was not._

_R. J. Lupin: Where do you presume Mr Malfoy was?_

_S. P. Snape: The Dark Lord told his followers that the youngest Malfoy was tortured and killed alongside his father._

_R. J. Lupin: Is there any reason to believe that Draco Malfoy is still a threat to the Order?_

_S. P. Snape: In the name of Albus Dumbledore, there is no reason to believe that Draco Malfoy still is or was ever a threat to the welfare of the Order of the Phoenix. _

Hermione slammed the folder once again in frustration. She wanted to scream at Lupin,

whose voice ebbed into obscurity like a dying music box. _It's just speculation!_ It should have seemed so obvious to him then; why didn't he question the professor? If Legilimency was no use, as was probably expected, they could have surely procured a vial or two of Veritaserum.

But of course _he _would have been the one to brew it. She cursed Snape's cleverness. Nothing he said had to be false, and most likely, none of it was. If he weren't such a bleeding sod, she would have envied his cunning.

And to some extent, she did.

Hermione turned the page.

**.x.**

She knocked on his door, intent on torturing him into making up her mind for her.

When a burly man answered whom she did not recognise as a bouncer from his show, she hoped to the god in whom she did not believe that this was, in fact, his door. He looked like he hadn't bathed in months–if ever–and smelled just the same. His shirt hung lazily out of his trousers, and looked as if it were three sizes too small; his trousers did little to hide a bulge of skin that she presumed to be his belly, though it was a tad difficult to tell what exactly was hiding beneath that unruly patch of hair. It took every ounce of her willpower to hold back a gag.

"And who're you?" he slurred, narrowing his eyes to get a better look at her. She would have thought he needed glasses if it weren't for where his eyes had fallen: uncomfortably on her bosom. She fidgeted and finally covered herself with her arms.

"My name's Hermione Granger," she enunciated. "I'm looking for the Great Draconus."

" 'e's not here," another man of similar stature called out, though she recognised this one from Malfoy's dressing room. He, too, squinted his eyes, but not in the inappropriate manner his crony had. His expression was one of familiarity. But it was not a kind one. "Yer the broad from the show the other night. 'in't I tell yeh ter get lost and leave the Great Draconus alone?"

Her heart rate quickened as she cowered beneath the men. She felt for her wand in her back pocket, and found small relief in its presence there. The truth of the matter was, she didn't even know if she could get to it should these towers decide to have a little fun with her. And a wand wasn't much help strewn on the floor, only a couple feet out of your grasp as two bullies had their way with you. Even if they were muggles.

And there was certainly a way to be had with a woman in these parts of town.

She stuck her chin up and stood on her toes. She would at least maintain a semblance of superiority. "Well then. If he isn't here, you wouldn't mind if I had a look inside, then?"

The first man laughed; the second one–she remembered his name to be Mason, or Madison, or something along those lines–took two steps forward and looked down on her for effect. "Oh, you can have more than a look inside."

"Leave her alone," came an annoyed voice from the alley.

The men backed down like scared puppies.

Malfoy moved toward her so swiftly that she could have sworn his feet never touched the ground, and nodded, acknowledging her presence. Another head nod sent the men inside, and with a slam of the door, the two wizards were alone.

"If you go venturing into these parts, I can't be held responsible for what happens to you," he said disapprovingly, condescendingly, as though he were speaking to a child and living in his manor rather than the garbage dump she was currently laying eyes on.

"What does it matter to you if I'm raped and murdered?"

"Trust me, Granger, nothing would thrill me more. However, we have a certain understanding that could be breached should another wizard get involved–"

"–Which is now in your control alone, depending on your answer to this question: if you are 'not a villain,' as you so alleged, why are you afraid to go back to the ministry?"

He, too, narrowed his eyes. He paused for two beats, speechless, before ignoring her entirely. "Let's get out of this filthy place."

He didn't wait for her response to lead her away.

They walked in quiet, not silence. The wind whispered sweet nothings into her ears until it ignited in her a nostalgia so deep that it chilled her bones and her knees nearly buckled. It wasn't that she'd not heard silence before then–oh, she'd heard silence, all right. She'd heard the calm before the storm; she'd heard the fear and doubt that knew no words. And she'd heard death, the silent thing; it still rang freshly in her ears like the aftershock of a bombshell. _So this is what it is to be free..._

But hers was an inevitable impatience. "Out with it already!"

"I'm thinking!"

"Well, now you've thought away another minute. The clock is ticking, Malfoy."

"I wasn't aware I had a time limit," he said coldly, his jaw tightening.

And then the quiet continued, but this time it was anticipating a storm.

"They'll convict me," he said finally.

"Of your crimes, yes."

"Regardless of my crimes! Or whether I committed them at all! Don't you see?"

"You plotted the death of Albus Dumble–"

"Under duress!"

"Forgive me if it would not appear that way."

"Which proves my point entirely. You asked why I can't go back, that's why. There's no pity for a death eater's son."

All it took was two words to make her remember, and she couldn't believe she'd nearly forgotten. She'd nearly forgotten his crime, his prejudice, her plight. Harry's plight. Everything they stood against, for which the pathetic excuse for a man before her stood. Her eyes narrowed, though within them, a burning anger still glistened in the moonlight. "You monster," she spat. "You deserve no pity."

"I'm not asking for pity. I'm simply trying to avoid prison."

"Self-preservation," she muttered disgustedly under her breath. "Always true to form."

"I'm sorry if I'd rather not have my soul sucked out of me!"

"What soul?"

"Ah," he clucked bitterly, and leaned his face toward hers. "So you're the clever one."

"That's what they say, yes," she bit through a set of clenched teeth, refusing to back up, refusing to back down.

He was the one to break their gaze, and she found herself staring into his broad, pale cheekbone. "Snape," he whispered. "Severus wanted–"

"Do not presume to know what _Severus _would want," she snarled. "You're not half the man he was."

"And I could never be! I am not proud!" He enunciated. "But even I do not deserve his fate! Nobody does." His voice suddenly dropped. "He risked his life for my anonymity."

"What he saw in you aside," she breathed, "this was one bloody fantastic way to honour his memory! Fooling around like this... did you think you'd not get caught?"

"I missed it."

"Missed what?"

"Magic," he said flatly, though there was nothing flat about the fire in his arctic eyes that suddenly flared in display.

"You abused your–"

"I was sixteen years old. I was faced with losing my family or losing my headmaster. Which would you have chosen?"

Her mouth clamped shut, and she closed her eyes, as though trying to recall a memory.

"That's what I thought."

He turned his back to her. She couldn't help but admire the curve of his neck as it plunged into his shoulder blades, broad as ever, white as the snow beginning to kiss her eyelashes and freeze her nose.

He just didn't get it. His personal struggle was for the ministry to judge. She couldn't have cared less why he thought he deserved a second chance. Or at least she shouldn't have.

"Malfoy," she said, and his name had never trickled off her tongue with more tenderness. "Why did you use magic when you knew you would be found?"

"I..." he inhaled sharply without turning around. "Could you?" His hands plummeted into his pockets and he regained his practised slouch.

"Could I..."

"Go without it?" All she could see of him was a cloud of breath against the black sky, streaming from his mouth. She shivered violently, suddenly. "For five years?"

Maybe it was the cold. Yes, she was certain it was the cold chilling her to her core. After all, she lived the first eleven years of her life without magic. She was a reasonable person. She could do it again. Couldn't she?

"You are far too presumptuous for your own good."

"Would you please just listen to me? I can tell you what happened the night Dumbledore died."

"Give me one good reason why I should listen to you," she demanded.

"Because it's the good and honest thing to do," he answered calmly, sincerely, without a second's pause.

"You are neither good nor honest."

"But you are both."

She blinked a few times and shook her head, trying to rid herself of her good nature and Gryffindor mentality. But she'd promised herself she'd at least hear him out. She had to give him a chance, even if he wouldn't have even spared her a consideration in she same situation.

"Do you know any places around here where we could get some privacy?"

**.x.**

_Dear Harry,_

_ I'm sorry to burden you twice in one week, but I was wondering if you'd meet me again for tea at the Luna; I've a very important matter to discuss regarding a certain DM. If Wednesday is inconvenient, owl back._

_ Mrs. Weasley_


End file.
